Under the Willow Tree
by obstinance-as-an-artform
Summary: She sat in the back, unnoticed, unmoving. She was just another mourner, another person he'd left behind. But she wasn't like the rest of them. Not in the slightest. Oneshot.


**Under the Willow Tree**

A warm breeze blew over the grounds, scattering the fallen leaves across stone walkways and grassy fields. The air was thick with stifling heat and precipitation—a storm was blowing in from the west, but the man on the Muggle television had announced that it wasn't expected to hit for several hours. Those gathered underneath the large, swaying willow tree raised their heads to the ever-darkening sky, watching nervously as threatening clouds rolled in above them.

She sat in the back, unnoticed, unmoving. In her dark, heavy dress robes, she blended in, melted into the crowd that surrounded her. She was just another mourner, another person he'd left behind. But she wasn't like the rest of them. Not in the slightest.

It seemed strange to her that forty years of life could be summed up in a single gathering, a congregation of cloaked wizards with their heads bent low, their voices never reaching beyond a whisper. Forty years of love, loyalty, betrayal, and sacrifice. Forty years filled with acceptance and obstinance, celebrations and regrets. Forty years that had been his life—a life that she had never been a part of.

The people gathered underneath the willow tree did not look back. They did not remember the sacrifices, the hatred, the fear that had once dominated their lives, threatening to claim them once and for all. They preferred to forget, to push the years of darkness and uncertainty out of their minds. They preferred to remember him as a husband, a father, a well-respected member of the magical community, not as a source of terror and destruction.

But she looked back. She remembered.

The war had ended only two years after she had been born. She had never experienced the feelings of terror, fear, and hopelessness as the rest of the people scattered underneath the willow tree had. But still, she remembered. The way her mother spoke, the way her eyes grew wide with a fear that had never truly died invoked a feeling so powerful within her that she felt as though she had been present during the dark years. Her mother told her stories of the war, of the lives that had been lost, of the broken remnants of families—her own included.

And it was because of the man lying inside of the black casket, shining dully in the remaining sunlight that managed to peek through the dark, looming clouds, that her family was torn and broken and mangled. Because of him, her mother had spent years alone, while he had married and had children, never once thinking of the woman and child he had abandoned.

She sat there, her auburn hair blowing wildly in the wind, exposing herself—her true identity—to the world she had hidden from for so long. She was there, mourning for what she had never had, mourning for what she had always wanted and was never _able_ to have. She mourned him, the man her mother spoke of in pained, quiet tones, the man who hadn't loved her at all.

Heads turned, eyebrows raised, looks of disbelief became evident on faces she vaguely recognized. Each of them conveyed the same meaning, the same message—she did not belong; she, a Weasley, was not welcome there, at a Malfoy funeral. But she alone knew that she was there for a reason, a reason no one gathered under the willow tree could understand. She was there to mourn her father.

Still aware of the stares and hushed, furious whispers, all she could do was focus on breathing, in and out. In and out, calmly, quietly, steadily.

The world had changed. Everyone gathered beneath the willow tree knew that all too well. But they had adapted to the new world, and spent their days looking forward to futures filled with promise and better days. She hated that they could move on, focus on tomorrow, when all she could do was dwell on a past filled with yesterdays that hadn't ever existed.

An old anger flared in her chest, rekindling scorched ashes into burning embers. Seventeen years she had been denied him, deemed unworthy of his presence, his love; now, as her father lay dormant, silent, unmoving in his casket, she was able to love him and hate him all at once for staying out of her life, for never once loving her in return. It always happened too late—most things seemed to occur that way these days.

She stood, ignoring the stares, whispers and gasps, and approached the casket, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She placed a trembling hand against the cool, smooth surface, loving him and hating him, remembering and forgetting the yesterdays and tomorrows.

She crept away slowly, leaving him and those under the willow tree behind. The rain was falling in heavy sheets now, and it renewed her as the droplets mingled with her fiery locks and cascaded down her worn, tired face.

Yesterday was over and tomorrow seemed irrelevant—and a smile tugged at the corners of her sorrowed lips, once again.


End file.
